


Divine Fidelity and Irreverent Worship

by Jenstar



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Amusement Parks, Carnival, Fluff, Holidays, Light Angst, M/M, i bully sylvain a little but i promise it's mostly a good time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:01:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27975522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenstar/pseuds/Jenstar
Summary: Sylvain sees concern weaving throughout Felix’s expression. He’s always been so easy to read. Still, Sylvain finds himself grounded by that marmalade stare outshining the gaudy gold trim of the church. He gives him a coy smile. Felix doesn’t buy it. Sylvain isn’t easy to read, but Felix always finds a way to figure him out anyway.Or: Sylvain always feels weird around the holidays. Things begin to veer towardsoh fuckterritory until Felix surprises him with a trip to a sketchy Miami Christmas carnival in hopes of unearthing some good nostalgia.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 16
Kudos: 92
Collections: Sylvix Advent Calendar





	Divine Fidelity and Irreverent Worship

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Sylvix Advent Calendar](https://twitter.com/SylvixCalendar).
> 
> Accompanying art done by the incredible [Kelp](https://twitter.com/nokedoke). 
> 
> Many thanks and so much love to [Cha](https://twitter.com/akhikosanada) for organizing everything.

The holidays start as they always do for Sylvain: in a damned church.

He stares at the choir as the gentle voices spiral around the towering pillars of the church, silky melodic ribbons curling like the smoke tendrils wafting from the candles with every crescendo of the _Ave Maria_. His gaze darts around the faces, an amalgamation of veteran church goers and fresh children all draped in billowy white robes with gold trim, standing in the chancel right next to the altar like an opener for a campy performance. Sylvain recognizes a few of them and chews the inside of his lip to keep from laughing; they really brought out the fucking big guns even though they’ve still got a few days until Christmas. 

That recognition of faces stirs something heavy and poisonous, like dropping shattered lead in a clear river. Part of the choir sang _Ave Maria_ at his mother’s funeral, and then at his father’s, and then at his brother’s. 

It sounded exactly the same then as it does now, the same inflections and intonations, the same crescendoed peaks with not even a single improvised vibrato. His mother, a doormat laced with cold indifference; his father, all insidious, selfish whims hidden under the weight of wealth and lofty expectations; his brother, a crushed product of a cruel iron fist and misguided anger; his family, all eulogized under the same song with nothing but clashing differences aside from the Gautier name and the fire of their hair. 

Sylvain wonders if they’ll sing _Ave Maria_ at his funeral as the same melody welcomes him back with self-righteous arms. He’ll probably deserve it. 

A sweaty hand reaches for him, laces pale fingers with his own, and now Sylvain has a different reason to laugh as he looks at Felix, his perpetual scowl replaced with a real frown. The Florida humidity has not been kind to Felix’s hair, frizzy strands sticking out this way and that, long bangs plastered to a wrinkled forehead. 

Sylvain sees concern weaving throughout Felix’s expression. He’s always been so easy to read. Still, Sylvain finds himself grounded by that marmalade stare outshining the gaudy gold trim of the church. He gives him a coy smile. Felix doesn’t buy it. Sylvain isn’t easy to read, but Felix always finds a way to figure him out anyway. 

“You don’t have to be here,” Felix says, the tenor tone of his voice mildly clashing with the manufactured angelics of the choir. 

“I know.” Sylvain squeezes his hand. “Thanks for coming.”

“I’m here for the free booze.” There’s the slightest upwards curve at the corner of Felix’s lips, and Sylvain finally barks out a laugh to the dismay of the people around them as they swivel their heads to glare. Sylvain half-wishes Felix would give them the finger. Disappointedly, he doesn’t, but he rewards Sylvain with an impish smirk instead. 

“Sorry babe, but you haven’t gone through your first communion, who knows what’ll happen if you line up for a sip. Can’t risk eternal damnation, and you might even combust into flame. Besides, it’s not even good wine.”

“You mean to tell me those cups are supposed to hold the blood of Christ but they can’t even get the good shit?”

Sylvain bites back another laugh. “Fe, you just cursed in a church.”

“I’ll send you a fucking love letter from Hell.” Felix squeezes his hand and smiles, all softened edges save for the sharpness of his cheeks. 

_It’s only once a year_ , Sylvain thinks, _prays_ while the priest finally makes his way to center stage at the altar. He’s all pearly smiles beaming across an eager crowd that’s holding back undistinguished cheers that would otherwise fracture the foundations of the church, sketch cracks in the stained glass, and execute whatever metaphor Sylvain can pull out of his ass. He hears Felix snort beside him, and suddenly that sweaty palm anchors him before pearled enamel can sink incisors into his flesh, before _Ave Maria_ can whisk him away. 

Mass begins like it always does, with the opening prayer followed by a verbal laceration half-condemning them all for being sinners in the form of the Penitential Rite. Sylvain always checks out at this part, with eyes glassed over, hovering over the architecture instead of asking God for forgiveness or whatever. 

The church is enormous; the arched ceilings reach upwards for what seems like miles, framed with gilded gold stark against the illusion of white marble all accentuated by the stained glass windows glistening on every wall. Sylvain settles on the glass first, watches the early afternoon sun seep through the panes in rainbow prisms. He searches for cracks in the art, looks deep into every sparkling face, every draped robe, every ring of sacrifice hardened by colored mirrors. He finds none and moves onto the towering cross bearing a crucified Jesus. There’s a Christmas wreath placed on his crown of thorns, festive tinsel matching every tacky Christmas decoration to an otherwise stunning church. Sylvain wonders if his father’s hefty donations paid for some of the opulence, for the golden arches, the motley windows, the carved Jesus. What would he have thought of the holiday decor?

 _Appearance is everything_ , a thought that slithers with a sharp tongue as Sylvain tears his gaze away from the plastic pine needles smothering a halo of thorns. He thinks of his father shipping Miklan overseas during his formative years in the name of upholding appearance, tossing his unruly son to be someone else's problem. Sylvain didn't miss him, not even a little, but he could have.

God, fuck that. 

Sylvain is pulled out of his unholy spiral by a tenor tone and a tug on his wrist. The whole congregation is standing, preparing to sing their first rendition of _Gloria_. Felix is on his feet, worry veined throughout that marmalade stare. Sylvain wants to sink into the rare sweetness.

“Hey,” Felix says, “you gonna stand?”

“Yeah, sorry.” Sylvian lets Felix pull him up and takes the songbook from the pew. He flips it to open to _Gloria_ on the first try. Maybe there’s something to be said about having some holy muscle memory. 

Mass continues without anymore metaphorical fumblings. Sylvain dares Felix to take a sip of the shitty wine, and Felix dares him to chuck the donation basket across the church like a frisbee. Sylvain let’s Felix win the game when he passes the basket down to the next person without adding a single penny. 

After the Concluding Rites and Dismissal, Sylvain stalls and stares at the crucified Jesus.

Felix gently removes Sylvain’s hand and cradles it, slowly traces the lines etched into the palm. 

“Sylvain,” Felix takes his free hand and cups Sylvain’s cheek, “why do you always come back here?” And it’s incredibly unfair how Felix disarms him with such ginger care, such tenderness crafted over the years they’ve been together in that molten gaze before asking such a loaded question. 

Why _does_ Sylvain always come back? Some fucked up sense of duty? An even more fucked up attempt to make amends with his late brother? Fuck if he knows.

Sylvain places his hand on top of Felix’s and cherishes the intimacy, ignoring the added heat underscored by the Florida humidity. 

“Force of habit, I guess.”

Felix hums before breaking their little touch-and-go in favor of guiding them towards the ornately carved wooden doors. “Let’s go home.”

Despite the thick warmth of the Florida winter draping over Sylvain like a weighted blanket, he feels the load of Mass fall off his shoulders in a wet heap. Felix gives him a small smile as they walk through the parking lot, and Sylvain can’t even bring himself to wrinkle his nose at the artificial smell of pine as he offers a dimpled smile of his own. 

Home is usually their too-cramped apartment tucked away in Portland on the opposite corner of the U.S. with a lanky black cat named Cranberry taking up most of the limited window sill space. It’s a block from Sylvain’s favorite donut place, which blows Blue Star and Voodoo out of the water. They like to go there on foggy gray Saturdays, so every Saturday, really. Sylvain always always fails to convince Felix to take a bite out of his blackberry jelly donut as they walk beneath bloated storm clouds with the steam of Felix’s black coffee curling around their rosy cheeks. 

But for now, home is the almost too large Fraldarius house in a stuffy Wellington suburb with the setting sun still somehow too bright as it filters through the tall windows while the humidity fogs the glass. There’s a crab shack a few miles down the road, which Ingrid, as unapologetically Floridian as ever, has stopped by once a day for a large order of fried gator nuggets since they all converged on their hometown a few days prior. 

She pops one in her mouth before she says, “What are the odds of us taking an airboat ride through the Everglades for old times’ sake?”

Dimtri winces before offering a strained, polite smile from his armchair. He’s about to say something before Felix bulldozes him completely. 

“Hell no.”

“Come on, Fe.” Sylvain twirls a little strand of Felix’s hair dangling just right above his ear. Felix playfully swats his hand away, but that scowl never falters. “Didn’t you enjoy it last time?”

Felix’s glare is almost lethal, but he redirects the edge at Dimitri, who suddenly looks incredibly small for a guy who just a few hours ago tilted Ingrid’s old Chevy Sonic a few inches off the ground to give the iguana stuck beneath it some wiggle room to flee. “Fuck no.”

“I still feel terrible about the incident,” Dimitri mutters apologetically. 

“The swamp water can’t have been that bad.” This earns Sylvain an arched brow from Felix, daring him to walk that tightrope down memory lane. Sylvain puts his hands up in surrender. “Alright, it was bad.”

“It was disgusting. I still can’t believe you pushed me in.”

“It was an accident!” Dimitri protests. “I was just...excited about the baby alligator that swam up to the boat.”

Felix huffs out a strangled sigh and crosses his arms.

Ingrid rolls her eyes. “Get over it. That was like ten years ago.”

“I can still smell the swamp water in my dreams.”

“I think Sylvain’s dramatics are rubbing off on you and I don’t like it.” Ingrid reaches for another nugget in her greasy takeout box, but her face falls when her fingers grip around nothing. She lies down on the plush rug in defeat. 

Rodrigue carefully wades in the living room, offering eggnog and hot chocolate even though it’s entirely too hot for the latter, but Ingrid and Dimitri accept it anyway. Felix is offered a cup of coffee, and Sylvain’s chest constricts when he takes it without a frown. Felix and his father still need to work out the remaining dents in their relationship. Some of the scratches and rusted paint can’t be fixed, but it’s a far cry from a few years ago when Glenn’s spot on the leather recliner became vacant forever. 

Felix also has a lot of shit to unpack, but Sylvain can’t help but feel proud of him while he watches him sip at his coffee. Sylvain wonders what a Gautier Christmas would feel like nowadays if they were all still alive, walking and dancing and side-stepping like they’re trying to outlive each other through a war. What would Sylvain do if any one of his ghosts offered him a cup of coffee, a cup of anything? He chugs half his eggnog. 

There’s also the added bonus of the restored friendship between Felix and Dimitri. Felix isn’t perfect, misplaced anger and hurt over the loss of someone you care about the most can warp you, twist your insides until the nerves snap and words become laced with venom. Sylvain’s seen his own version first-hand. Dimitri’s no model saint either, but after years of weaponized anger and sulking under the same roof after Dimtri’s parents flatlined alongside Glenn on their way back from Dimtri’s soccer game, Felix and Dimitri were too exhausted to do anything but mend what they’d broken. Sylvain tries not to think about it too hard, lest the warmth in his chest overwhelm him, it’s already too hot in Florida. 

“Rodrigue, do you need us to grab anything for Christmas dinner or help you make anything while we’re here for the next week?” Dimitri asks, his fingers guilty fidgeting around his mug like any sudden move will crack the porcelain, the stakes upped considerably since it’s one of Glenn’s old mugs. 

“No need. I’ve already called the caterer.” 

“Dimitri, you know none of us can cook for shit.”

“Language, Felix,” Rodrigue says, and Felix just settles against Sylvain’s arm with a scoff. A few years ago he might have thrown his cup of coffee. 

“I can cook for shit,” Ingrid asserts, and the whole room groans at the memory of her attempt at chicken pot pie last year, which was offensive at best. 

Rodrigue curbs the conversation before the topic of appropriate seasoning tears everyone’s relationships apart. “Well, I’ll be in my office. You’re all welcome to everything in the house. Let me know if you need anything.” He walks out of the living room in long, hurried strides, and Sylvain feels Felix relax against him. He winds his arm around his shoulders and is relieved when Felix doesn’t shrug him off. There’s a softness Felix saves for Sylvain and only in private, or when he really needs it, like during plastic-wrapped church services in overly immaculate cathedrals. 

But even small public displays of affection still slightly embarrass Felix, which is why Sylvain is grateful for the casual way he stays put beneath his arm. He takes advantage of it by tucking him in a little closer. Felix doesn’t protest.

“Did you guys want to hit up the beach tomorrow?” Sylvain asks. “There’s supposed to be a cold front, which means mid sixties with a draft at best, but that comes with the promise of some pretty nice waves to ride.”

“I promised my dad I’d go fishing with him tomorrow,” Ingrid laments from the floor, exhaling a hefty breath after a long swig of her hot chocolate.

“And I promised Rodrigue I would help him pick out a tree and bring it indoors.” Dimitri stares at the empty space in the corner of the living room, left too empty for too long during the holiday season so they’d all have the opportunity to decorate it together, a tradition they’ll never shake. 

“Maybe Saturday, then,” Sylvain compromises. “We can make sandmen and sand angels after crushing some cans of Twisted Tea.”

“Or we can pelt sandballs at each other. '' Ingrid's eyes light up like sea glass in the summer as nostalgia takes over.

“Those fuckers hurt.” Felix directs another glare at Dimitri, who doesn’t even try to offer an apology this time.

“Perhaps we can do something else that would minimize the chances of me causing irreparable damage,” he says instead.

“Wait, is that carnival still around? That real tacky one in Miami?” Sylvain stretches and jostles Felix a bit, who grunts before aggressively resettling into Sylvain’s side. He thinks of Cranberry. 

“Santa’s Enchanted Forest?” Ingrid humors him. “I feel like we’re picking at Felix’s favorite memories at this point,” she taunts.

“Why is something always happening to me?”

“What do you mean? We had our first kiss there.” Sylvain says with feigned dismay.

“That doesn’t count.” Felix rolls his eyes. 

Sylvain perhaps was getting a bit too technical as far as a first kiss goes, but it was one of those rare displays of childhood innocence he clings on to with a vice grip just to remind himself the universe had granted him _some_ wholesome memories to file away for later out of mercy.

Prior to boarding the ferris wheel, the topic of first kisses came up as it does when a group of four worldly pre-teens are hyped up on too many bundles of green and red cotton candy and head-spinning rides. Felix had turned an impressive shade of scarlet when it was revealed he was the only one who hadn’t kissed anyone yet ( _Dimitri, you too? How!?_ ). Ingrid and Dimitri had doubled up on the cart before theirs, and Felix was left with Sylvain’s relentless teasing until they reached the top. 

Towering over the colorful mess of the carnival with the giant animatronic Santa Claus waving from the distance, Sylvain had said, _I can be your first kiss if you want to get it over with._

_No way._

_It’ll be fast, I promise._

Felix had breathed harshly through his nose. _Another promise on the ferris wheel?_

_I don’t think this is as serious as a death pact after sitting in a wobbly cart. What if I dared you?_

Felix mulled it over for a moment, weighing out his pride and the merits of denying a dare.

_Fine. Only if it’s fast._

And it was fast, really fast. Some people probably wouldn’t have considered it a kiss, but Sylvain did, and he still does. He thinks about it often. 

“I don’t know if that carnival is even safe nowadays. Not that it ever truly was.” Dimitri crosses his legs before carefully finishing the rest of his hot chocolate. 

“It really was questionable at its prime, huh?” Ingrid smiles from the rug.

“It was just a thought, we don’t have to go.” Disappointment sinks into Sylvain’s chest like a steel-toed boot stomping through the mud. It surprises him. He’s not entirely sure why he’s a little disheartened by the prospect of not going to the carnival even though he’s never brought it up until now. Maybe it has to do with the bitter fact that most of his _good_ childhood memories are tied to creaky amusement parks, but he’s still not interested in unpacking things, so he shoves that in a deep corner for another time. 

They shoot the shit for another hour before moving on to an incredibly inconsequential but equally important tradition: Christmas movie marathon. They start with Ingrid’s favorite, The Holiday, and move on to Die Hard (it’s _absolutely_ a Christmas movie). Midway through Home Alone, Dimitri is slowly sinking into the couch, Felix is nodding off on Sylvain’s shoulder, and Ingrid is sprawled across all their laps in an attempt to take over the couch’s real estate. Sylvain gets them all up and Dimitri offers to take Ingrid to her parents’ home. 

“Come on.” Felix pulls Sylvain up the stairs. “I’m tired and I want to wash my hair. It’s gross.”

Sylvain thinks it’s a little funny how the heat simmering off Felix’s back still pulls him forward despite the suffocating stickiness that clings onto the Florida air, even in December. They’ve got the fans spinning and the A/C cranked to a comfortable sixty-seven though, and so Felix’s warmth after a shower is addicting as always. Sylvain indulges in the comfort, scoots himself just a little bit closer as he decides what he’ll thread those midnight strands into with a delicate reverence he only reserves for Felix.

Felix’s hair wash days are Sylvain’s favorite. They’re lazy, hazy, and the way Felix silently settles himself in between Sylvain’s thighs, tosses his still-damp hair over his shoulder, and allows Sylvain to braid it any way he’d like is the perfect punctuation to end even the hardest days, especially the hardest days. 

Sylvain runs his fingers through the black tresses, starts at the scalp and gently wanders towards the tips before he parts the strands three ways, the fresh aroma of papaya conditioner tickling his nose. He always takes a moment to stare at a handful of hair and how it curls in his palm, inky tendrils framing every freckle on his skin, the wet luster reminding him of the blue-veined crow feathers he used to love pressing into the pages of books to keep his place. He kisses the handful before getting to work.

Today was a little hard, but as Sylvain weaves those tendrils over and under and then over again, it soothes him, grounds him, helps him keep his place. 

Sylvain gingerly swings the braid over Felix’s shoulder once he’s finished and plants another kiss at the nape of his neck. Felix affectionately grumbles something unintelligible before shutting off the lamp on the nightstand and promptly buries himself under the covers. Sylvain slides in right behind him, wraps his arms around his torso and nestles into the crook of his neck. He peaks around the room and giggles at the band posters stapled to the wall, remnants of Felix’s A Day to Remember phase when he was in high school. Felix stirs under his breath, and Sylvain likes the way the resulting goosebumps feel against his cheek. 

“Do you really not count that one time as our first kiss?” He murmurs into his skin.

“Does it really matter?”

“Nah, not really. Just wondering.” Sylvain pulls Felix closer to his chest before he asks, “Would you want to go to Santa’s Enchanted Forest tomorrow? Just us, it would be kinda cute.”

“I’d rather not meet an early death by getting flung off a shady carnival ride to the tune of _Let It Snow_.”

Sylvain loosens his grip. “Okay.” 

Normally Sylvain talks Felix’s ear off until he’s physically too exhausted to make his mouth move, but right now his mind is running at a mile a minute trying to process where the hell all this disappointment is coming from. 

Felix definitely notices and turns to face Sylvain, cradles his cheek like a treasure. Sylvain will never get tired of that. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Sylvain lies. Felix narrows his eyes, rubs his thumb over Sylvain’s cheekbone and leans forward to give him a chaste kiss. He rearranges himself so his face is pressed against Sylvain’s chest.

Felix has never been good with words, they’ve never come easily to him and they fluster him when they do. Felix shows his affection through actions, through those soft moments with tender touches and gentle face presses made perfect by those eyes preserved in darkened copper, glimmering like amber. Felix breathes something just above Sylvain’s collarbone. It’s blanketed by fatigue, chased by the promise of sleep, but Sylvain catches it anyway. He places every whispered confession into the codex of his favorite memories, not unlike pressing a crow feather into an unfinished book. Sylvain thinks of the old prayer jar that would sit on his bookshelf when he was a kid and wonders if he can fill it with all of Felix’s admissions. 

“I love you, too,” Sylvain mumbles into Felix’s hair before they quietly fall asleep with the fan whirring at full speed. 

Sylvain wakes to the shrill sound of Felix’s alarm at the ass crack of dawn. In the groggy aftermath of interrupted sleep, he considers the metaphor he wove last night about his prayer jar and imagines presenting all of Felix’s heinous transgressions to a god he never believed in so Felix can properly be damned to hell for cursing in churches and waking up at five thirty in the morning to go for a run. 

Felix is considerate enough to turn it off immediately, but he still tumbles over Sylvain to get dressed. Sylvain pulls the covers over his face and buries it in his pillow. He figures he’ll admonish Felix for his crimes later. He listens to the rustling of clothes, and the bed dips as Felix laces up his shoes.

“You wanna come along this time?” Felix asks like a fucking mad man. At least he has the decency to run his fingers through Sylvain’s hair after asking such an absurd question. Sylvain just groans.

“Such a baby.” Felix twirls a red curl around his index finger. “I’ll be back in a little less than two hours.” Right. Two hours. Because Felix enjoys running half-marathons even on vacation because he’s actually insane. 

His fingers leave Sylvain’s scalp, and the bed shifts as Felix gets up to leave. By sheer force of will, Sylvain turns his head to catch him before walking through the threshold.

“No good morning kiss?” Sylvain croaks. Felix gives him the finger and a smile as he strides out the room. Sylvain lets out a decidedly not dramatic sigh and nuzzles into the sheets again. They carry the faint smell of papaya, and sleep finds Sylvain so easily. 

He does eventually get his good morning kiss even after suggesting they shower together. Felix relents anyway, and afterwards they lazily drape over the couch in the living room for most of the day, dressed with nowhere to go, Felix’s calf in Sylvain’s hands as he massages the lean muscle there. He stares around the room, surveys the surrounding pictures and portraits hanging high on the walls. 

Sylvain has two favorites. There’s one with just Felix and his mother swimming in the enormous pool in the backyard. He’s probably around three years old, pale skin flushed pink with the Florida heat, pool floaties in the shape of cats hugging his arms. His mother is throwing him up in the air, and the sunlight refracts off the splashing water and the bright bronze of her eyes, Felix’s own just as priceless and unaware that it would be their last summer together.

The other is a candid photo at Felix’s tenth birthday. They’re at the table settled on the porch just before the pool, a large cinnamon birthday cake towering at the center. Glenn is smearing spiced frosting all over Felix’s cheek while Ingrid laughs through a mouthful of dessert. Dimitri looks slightly terrified, and Felix looks as livid as ten year olds have the capacity to be, his little right hand waving angrily at Glenn, his left holding Sylvain’s tightly. He wonders what these pictures would look like as stained glass windows. 

A frustrated sigh catches Sylvain’s attention, and he watches Felix angrily type away on his phone and mumble something about debit card expiration dates.

“Whatcha buying, Fe?”

“Don’t be nosy.” 

“Oh, is it a surprise for me?”

“It wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you,” Felix says.

“A man of mystery. That’s kinda sexy.” Sylvain catches Felix’s foot before it collides with his cheek. A light wrestling match ensues which ends with Sylvain pinned underneath Felix.

“I just ironed this shirt this morning.”

“Too bad,” Felix smirks. “I want to take you somewhere.”

“More surprises? Should I be concerned?” Sylvain’s grins at Felix’s eyebrow twitch.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Come on.” Felix swings over Sylvain and pads down the hall towards the front door. Sylvain hears him rummage through the key bowl.

“Isn’t the only car at our disposal right now your dad’s Lexus?” Sylvain asks as he follows Felix out the front door. 

“I don’t see why that matters.”

“And he’s just...gonna let _you_ drive it?” Sylvain thinks of one the only times he was in Felix’s passenger seat, when he very briefly owned a car, and opened the glove compartment out of curiosity only to be met with a downpour of speeding tickets. 

“When have I ever asked?” Felix asks, annoyed. 

“Good point.”

They’ve spent a solid forty-five minutes going south on I-95 and have had only one close call. Sylvain absolutely counts that as a blessing. As he tries and definitely doesn’t fail to hit the high notes of Wham’s _Last Christmas_ , he registers the South Miami scenery when Felix takes an exit. 

“Felix,” Sylvain says as his grin pushes his cheeks right up to the corner of his eyes. “Are you taking me to Santa’s Enchanted Forest?” There’s a billboard advertising the carnival right at the end of the exit ramp, and Felix turns towards the direction the badly drawn Santa is pointing at. 

“I’m really shit at surprises, huh?”

“God, you really are, but this is still so thoughtful.” Sylvain turns to beam at Felix, who never takes his eyes off the road, but color blooms on his face and Sylvain is incredibly in love.

“I can be thoughtful for you.”

After twenty more minutes of driving and navigating the packed parking lot of the carnival, they’re directed into a spot by a man in an elf costume. The afternoon sun is slowly making way for dusk, and the Christmas lights spirling around the trunks of the palm trees are beginning to show off their luster in the waning daylight. 

The entrance is as festive and delightfully tacky as Sylvain remembers. The pathway to the ticket booths are illuminated by large archways decorated with all the Christmas fanfare: lights, tinsel, ornaments, bells, and bows, all shimmering some combination of red, green, gold, and silver. There’s fake snow billowing from all sides thanks to the horribly loud fans whirring in every direction. It’s soapy and sticky and terrible and Sylvain fucking loves it. He laughs when Felix tries to pluck the faux snow out of his bangs. Sylvain spots a booth selling Christmas accessories off to the side and wanders off while Felix grabs their wristbands with the confirmation number on his phone. He browses the selection of Christmas-themed headpieces before he settles on a Santa hat and a headband with reindeer antlers. There are little bells tied to the ends, and those alone are worth the possible homicide Sylvain may be a victim of at Felix’s hand.

Sylvain reunites with Felix with his Santa hat already plopped on his head as he presents the antlers to Felix, who promptly furrows his brows and scowls.

“No.”

“Aw, please? Don’t you want to be that disgustingly cute couple with almost-matching hats?”

“ _Hell_ no.”

“Just think of wearing them as being extra thoughtful,” Sylvain pouts, willing all of his charm and finesse to pool in the umber of his eyes. His pout isn’t nearly as calamitous as Annette’s or even Ashe’s, but it works all the same because Felix lets out an aggravated sigh and snatches the antlers out of Sylvain’s hand. They jingle as he puts them on. 

“Did you have to get the one with bells?” Felix huffs. Sylvain flicks one of them and laughs at the small, jovial sound coupled with Felix’s frown.

“If you get lost, it’ll be easy to find you. I’ll just have to keep my ears open.”

Santa’s Enchanted Forest is about as enchanted as an overpriced, Christmas-themed carnival in an abandoned plot of overgrown marshland can get. The reds and greens and golds and silvers don’t stop at the entrance, the colors are all laced throughout the grounds, snaking their way up the tents and dangling from every surface. There are children running around with footlong corn dogs and huge puffs of cotton candy, tired parents jogging lazily behind them. The classic giant animatronic Santa Claus is waving, each back and forth of his arm emitting an awful screech Sylvain finds a little charming. It goes well with the subpar rendition of _Let It Snow_ courtesy of a group of locals singing in ugly Christmas sweaters. The rush of the rides blow air around them and kick up even more fake snow, and paired with the welcomed “cold front,” it actually feels nice to be outside.

And while Sylvain can give part of his thanks to the weather, he knows this unrestrained happiness is mostly due to the palm holding his, to the way the motley assortment of colored lights glimmer on sharp cheekbones and reflect off a russet gaze and a few tiny bells. A child runs right in front of them, and Felix squeezes Sylvain’s hand to stop himself from tripping over. Sylvain looks down and smiles at Felix’s crinkled nose. 

All the fake gold and silver brings him back to the church, though, back to the plastic tinsel wrapped around the marble columns, the fake pine needles crowding around a crown of thorns. Even the singing from the group reminds him of the choir, and a distant bell tacks his mind on the service. 

It’s strange how if things were different, if God or whatever showed just the tiniest heavenly sliver of mercy, maybe Sylvain could have enjoyed something like this a little more when he was younger. Maybe he could have thrown sticky fake snow at his brother, or marveled at all the lights with his mother, or have pulled his father up the metal ramps towards the rides to sit side by side. Maybe, maybe, maybe. 

But as the locals transition to a disrespectful execution of _All I Want for Christmas_ , Sylvain accepts that it’s too late for maybes. It’s too late to cross his fingers during prayer for an upbringing that matches the rapturous aesthetics of the Catholic Church. He looks at Felix again, concern sprawling all over the pale planes of his face, and grins. He prefers this messy, sketchy carnival over the manicured mantle of the church, rickety rides over gold trim, scratchy vocals over _Ave Maria_. 

“Sylvain,” Felix starts, his free hand wiping a bit of the soap-snow off Sylvain’s cheek. “Are you happy?” Sylvain tries not to snort right in Felix’s face because what an incredulous question. He settles for kissing his forehead instead. 

“Of course,” he answers, so soft, and pink flushes Felix’s skin. It looks wondrous under the flashing carnival lights. 

“Good.” Felix absentmindedly swings their hands. “What do you wanna do first?”

Sylvain takes a look around and makes up his mind when a particularly sharp shriek echoes off the giant coaster. “Let’s get on some of the crazier rides first, at least before we eat. Don’t want a repeat of the summer of ‘07.”

Felix recoils. “Felt it all the way to my socks.”

“You know, Dima is still sorry about your shoes.”

They get in line for The Big One, a creatively-named ride for the biggest roller coaster around. Felix gives Sylvain a warning glare before he can make some type of innuendo. Sylvain lets it go and pulls Felix closer to his side. They watch other carnival goers board the Ring of Fire and the loud, creaky metal of the doors closing makes Sylvain wince.

“Wanna go on that thing after this one?”

“Sylvain, that piece of junk caught on fire last time we were here.”

“I never realized the irony of that until right now. You think they’ve upped the safety measures since then?” The couple in front of them lean on the railing, and after a few moments, fall hard on the ground after the metal gives out. “Don’t answer that.”

If there’s one part about Santa’s Enchanted Forest that Sylvain can’t believe he sacrilegiously forgot was how Felix handles his amusement on fast-paced rides. He just...laughs. Uncontrollably. Felix probably thinks it’s a lot less embarrassing than screaming, and he has to channel that restless energy somehow. It’s almost the most wonderful thing in Sylvain’s entire world, second to those small smiles that catch him off-guard, fondness coalescing at the corners. The coaster surges up and down, left and right, and Felix laughs, laughs, laughs. Sylvain can’t even concentrate on properly enjoying the ride, the sight of Felix’s unfiltered joy too addicting, too rare, too perfect. It reminds him of that picture in the Fraldarius living room of a small Felix laughing as his mother throws him in the air towards the sun. 

As soon as they get off The Big One, Sylvain can’t help himself. He catches Felix’s face in both hands and kisses him in front of a stray gyro tent. The antlers ring with Felix’s surprise, but soon he relaxes and gently grabs onto Sylvain’s shirt. When they pull away, Sylvain revels in the dazed, half-lidded expression Felix can’t seem to shake. 

“Thanks for bringing me here,” he says. “I know you weren’t really interested.”

“Don’t be stupid. I’m interested if it’ll get you to stop pouting.” Felix offers one those small smiles, and Sylvain almost pushes his luck with another impromptu public display of affection.

They board all the classics and then some. The high speed spinning spaceship was next on the list, Felix’s laughter almost doubling as they watch a spritely young man with hair as blue as robin’s eggs stay perpendicular to the ground with only his feet touching the wall. His friend to his left looks amused for all of ten seconds before falling asleep.

Sylvain thinks his spine might fall out of his ass when they ride the Orbiter, and if that doesn’t end it all for him, the probability of the sketchy arms holding the carts in place snapping cleanly in half will. But whether it all ends with a spinal extraction or his body being flung from the ride and straight into the giant Santa Claus, Sylvain decides it’d be worth it. The last thing he would see is that bright bronze stare sparkling with unveiled delight. Sylvain can’t help but giggle alongside Felix, the sound of their laced laughter and scratchy Christmas music and the chiming of little antler bells just shy of overwhelming, settling into that pocket of perfection Sylvain will never get tired of. 

They stare up at the giant Christmas tree next to Zero Gravity afterwards, each decoration haphazardly placed on every branch. The star at the top twinkles in tandem with _It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year_. Sylvain reaches out and plucks a flamingo ornament off a tree limb and snorts. Felix just rolls his eyes before grabbing it out of his hands and putting it back. 

A loud hunger pain from Felix cuts through Andy Williams’ last note.

“Let me repay you with a turkey leg,” Sylvain says, and Felix spares not a single second before he’s guiding them towards the ring of concession stands and tents, the smell of fried dough already starting to cling to their hair. 

Felix cleans off his “meat-on-a-stick” at Ingrid-level speeds and quickly starts working on his turkey leg. Sylvain licks the green and red frosting off his fingers after shoveling a large chunk of funnel cake into his mouth. It feels strange how easy it is to throw away all the rules of etiquette taught under the guise of holiness in favor of a grease-laden meal in a lawless land with his boyfriend. Sylvain tries not to think about it too much.

They call it quits on the rides and gravitate towards the carnival games. Sylvain eyes the stuffed animals hanging in the tents, ranging from small enough for the palm of your hand to so outrageously large it would be kind of embarrassing to carry one around. Sylvain wants to win Felix one of the big ones. 

He tries his strength at Test Your Might, slamming a comically large hammer onto a wooden plank. The block doesn’t quite reach the bell, and Sylvain shoots Felix an apologetic smile, his hand finding the back of his neck. Felix just smirks as a petite girl picks up the hammer. She lines it up with the plank and swings with the force of one thousand waterfalls. The block hits the bell in less than a second. She picks out a stuffed horse with a red and green bow and gives it to a shy girl standing just behind the flap of the tent. She beams at her new gift, and they wander towards the rides in a blur of pink and blue, reminding Sylvain of the cotton candy hanging off the food carts. 

“I’m gonna win you one of those.”

“I don’t want a horse,” Felix huffs.

“Then something else. You’re not walking away empty handed,” Sylvain persists. 

Felix shakes his head, and the antlers jingle. “You already gave me this thing.”

“Stop being a grinch.” Sylvain tugs Felix towards the Whack-A-Moles. He hands the carnival elf enough money so Felix can join him this time.

“Think you can beat me?” Sylvain asks the golden question. Felix hasn’t denied a challenge or a dare since he was six and made the ill-advised decision to race Glenn in a murky canal, resulting in nausea pains after swallowing too much water muck.

“Of course I can.” Felix picks up the plastic mallet like he’s preparing for battle. 

Ultimately, Sylvain barely wins, and a shit-eating grin sprawls on his face as he scans the prize choices, Felix all crossed arms and wrinkled brows right behind him. There are stuffed elves and reindeers and Santas, with the occasional Abominable Snowman scattered here and there. None of the Christmas-themed plushies feel worth it, but tucked away behind a few Rudolphs is a moderately-sized black cat plushie, a smug little expression sewed onto its face. It sort of looks like Cranberry. It’s fucking perfect. He points to it, and when the elf passes it along, he places it in Felix’s arms.

“A prickly cat for the prickly cat.”

“Oh my fucking god,” Felix says, but he runs a thumb over the tiny nose, a glint of endearment flashing along with the lights of the tent. He tucks it under his arm before he says, “Now I have to win you something,” because of course he does, the competitive shit. 

“If you think you can beat me at another game, then sure.”

Felix demolishes Sylvain’s ass in Pop Balloons, and it takes him all of five seconds before he decides on a stuffed fox. He shoves it into Sylvain’s arms with a hurried _here._ Sylvain stares at the big ears, the russet tufts of hair sticking out in every direction, the bushy tail dangling off its bum. It’s the silliest and best thing Sylvain owns. Sylvain promptly kisses Felix’s forehead.

“Why a fox?”

“Reminds me of you.”

“You don’t think I’m conniving, do you?” This stirs something strange in Sylvain’s stomach, an all too familiar ache at the prospect of someone he loves figuring him out, whatever that means. 

“Foxes are clever and crafty,” Felix says, a fond blush creeping along the tips of his ears as he runs his fingers through the fox’s tale, and that sinking feeling quickly leaves Sylvain’s gut, leaving only the bits of funnel cake he may have eaten too quickly.

“Felix, say that again.”

“No.” He smiles and takes Sylvain’s hand. “Want to try our luck with the shitty maze?”

“Oh hell yeah.”

For once, the maze isn’t shitty. Most of the budget must have been invested in tall, trimmed hedges adorned with more tacky Christmas decorations than the church. Sylvain wants to laugh. A bored looking elf waves them into the entrance. 

It’s smooth sailing at first, Sylvain and Felix agreeing on every turn. It’s not until the third dead end that Felix begins to bristle.

“I told you we should have gone right,” he sighs, pulling Sylvain around the next corner. They come across another crossroads, and he begins to veer towards the left, but Sylvain keeps himself planted.

“I think we should go right here, actually.”

“Well you’re wrong.” Felix tries to tug his hand again, but releases an aggravated groan when Sylvain doesn’t budge. He lets go of his hand. 

“Think you can find the exit before me, Felix?” Sylvain taunts. Felix doesn’t dignify that with an answer and stalks away instead. His shoulder brushes the corner of a hedge, several ornaments tumbling in the aftermath, and his figure disappears as he makes a sharp left turn. 

Sylvain takes his time as he strolls towards the right. He watches his reflection on the bulbous surface of the ornaments, each one washing him out in a red, green, gold, and silver blur. He makes a few more turns before coming across another dead end. There’s a bench here, and right behind it is a plastic, fucked up figure of Jesus. His eyes are mismatched, one almost flipped sideways, drooping towards the bottom of the waxy cheek. The Florida heat probably melted it as soon as it was unceremoniously plopped here. There’s paint chipping everywhere, chunks of color missing from the hair and the robes and the skin. 

But despite the bent thorns, the barbed crown sits proudly on Jesus’ head, terribly painted blood as red as maraschino cherries running down from the edges. It feels taller than the one at the church, the rushed, subpar handiwork of it all somehow more fitting than the expertly sculpted version in the cathedral. 

Sylvain just stares and stares and stares, his hand dropping from his head to hug his fox plush close to his chest. The warped eye resting on Jesus’ cheek seems to track his moment of vulnerability as his grip tightens. Distantly he swears to God he can hear that shitty group of locals hum the _Ave Maria_. 

Their singing is interrupted by a faint jingle of tiny bells and hurried footfalls tracking through the dirt. It gets louder and louder until a hand gently grabs Sylvain’s shoulder. He still can’t tear his eyes away from the plastic statue.

“Hey,” he hears, and that tenor tone jolts him enough to turn, his gaze crashing into warm marmalade, tumbling into the bright bronze he calls home. 

“Hey,” he echoes. Sylvain watches Felix eye the figure, his eyes narrowing in complete distaste.

“That’s ugly as fuck,” Felix says.

“Yeah.”

Felix’s fingers find Sylvain’s, twines them together like strings of fate and holds on tight with the promise of never letting go. “I found the exit, I’ll lead us there.”

Sylvain treks through the maze in a dim fog. He focuses on the black cat tucked safely under Felix’s arm as he follows him out, the smug face happily guiding him all the way through. Once they’ve passed the leafy threshold of the exit, Sylvain lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He feels Felix rub a thumb over the back of his hand, and the cool touch is enough to ground him. The group of amateur singers have moved on to _Little Drummer Boy_. 

He tears his gaze away from the group and their terrible sweaters and lands on the ferris wheel spinning a few hundred feet away. He stares at the top, watches the carts swivel as they stop for a minute or two, legs swinging over the edge. Sylvain thinks of his favorite first, swift and chaste and impossibly warm. 

“Felix, let’s go on the ferris wheel.” Felix snakes his arm around his bicep and pulls him close. Sylvain’s gasp is small and surprised, but Felix just tightens his grip in response. 

“Sure.”

Sylvain gets onto the cart first and is quickly shoved all the way to the edge when Felix scoots in, nuzzling into Sylvain as close as he can. The wheel begins to turn, and the cart swings a little too violently for comfort. 

“As much as I love the emergence of cuddly Felix, I don’t know if this weight distribution is optimal for janky carnival rides.” Felix shrugs before plucking the fox out of his hands, situating it next to the cat to his right. 

“There. Even.” Felix buries his nose in Sylvain’s shoulder, who’s caught off-guard once again, the prospect of falling even further for Felix astonishing him every time, the possibility decreasing in feasibility with every mile he adds to the nosedive. 

They’re quiet as their cart ascends, stopping and going every minute or two, the creaking of metal and carnival renditions of Christmas music weaving through their comfortable silence like sticky faux snow melting into sweaty bangs. When they reach a certain altitude, the weight distribution actually becomes a factor, and Sylvain reaches over to grab their stuffed animals before nudging Felix to scoot over. He places their new friends on their laps and wraps an arm around Felix’s shoulder. Felix grunts at all the movement, justifying Sylvain’s choice in carnival prizes, but settles comfortably in Sylvain’s side anyway. 

When they get closer to the apex, Felix asks, “Are you gonna tell me what’s wrong?” Sylvain stiffens momentarily, but pulls Felix closer, the warmth properly disarming him. 

“I keep trying to not think about my parents, about Miklan, but it’s fucking hard.” Sylvain looks up at the lights twirling on the black canvas of sky, greens and reds and golds and silver pushing out all the stars. 

“Why do you always go back to the church, then?” There’s no trace of accusation in Felix’s tone, no sign of frustrated concern, just an invitation for an honest response. It doesn’t wipe away the difficulty of answering, but it helps nonetheless. Sylvain concentrates on those unfair lashes fanning over fossilized amber to gather some courage.

“I feel like I owe it to my brother,” he says, and the ferris wheel jerks them upwards, and now it's their turn to stay perched at the top. 

“I know how that feels,” Felix quietly responds. Sylvain thinks of Glenn smearing icing on his cheek.

The view from the creaky summit hasn’t changed much. The carnival is still rich and lively even from this height, the fake snow swirling through the air in haphazard spirals. The animatronic Santa is still waving in the distance, each back and forth of his arm getting more rigid with every wave. It’s still more charming than delicate stained glass windows. 

“Sylvain,” Felix starts, his voice an anchor even from so up high, “They were shit. You don’t owe them anything.” Sylvain hums, clutching the fox for a little more comfort. “I know this time of year is always hard for you, but I hope it’s gotten a little easier.”

Sylvain looks at Felix, really looks at him, and that small, devastating smile is right there, carved along pale skin like a path leading Sylvain towards exactly where he needs to be.

“It has. I have a place to call home,” and he levels with that pair of copper, the warm sheen more inviting than soft white robes trimmed with fool’s gold.

“Hmm” Felix almost rests his head against his chest, but Sylvain catches his chin with his hand, the fox now secured between his legs.

“Hey Felix?”

“What?” Felix cautiously raises a brow.

“What if I dared you to kiss me on the ferris wheel?”

“There’s no way you’re this much of a sap.” Felix tries to sound annoyed, but the tender glint refracting off his gaze betrays him.

“I thought you never said no to dares?”

“I don’t.” Felix looks at Sylvain expectedly, and with a dimpled smile, Sylvain leans in for his second kiss on the ferris wheel, knockoff snow billowing through the Florida humidity as the carnival lights bathe them in a dazzling display of holy brilliance.

**Author's Note:**

> Taking the time to thank Cha and Kelp once again. 
> 
> I’m on [twitter](https://twitter.com/jenstarlol), and if you want more holiday Sylvix fun written/illustrated by especially skilled creators, follow the [Sylvix Advent Calendar](https://twitter.com/SylvixCalendar) to not miss out on the rest of the good stuff.


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